


Angel in the Attic

by gabriel



Series: Angel in the Attic [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angel in the Attic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriel/pseuds/gabriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the angels fell from Heaven, they fell fast and they hit the ground hard. Now, they're hunted by the men who they previously protected, killed by them, and their wings mounted like trophies. This is how Dean Winchester comes across the angel Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For as long as he can remember, Dean Winchester has always been told not to trust an angel. They are feral creatures that don’t understand human interaction; they were put on this earth to be hunted, to be killed - murdered. Even today, he remembers being a child, sitting in the main room of their house with Sam while their father was away on a hunt. He remembers the wings mounted on the wall; large golden wings that had to have at least been twenty feet long, covering the entire span of the wall. His father told him that they belonged to the first angel that he had killed -  _Balthazar_  - and Dean had always wondered how something with a name, something with intelligence, something so beautiful, could so easily be killed and mounted like an animal.

The story goes that Heaven was once a beautiful place, full of life, light, and hope. The angels lived there, lived with God - their Father - and no angel was greater than the rest. All were treated equally, seen the same way in God’s eyes, but some angels begin to take human emotions. Jealousy and rage filled some, because they were treated as equals when they thought the other angels should be inferior. Lucifer was the angel that had acted out, had killed - slaughtered - to become greater than the rest. He was God’s most loyal son, the one who was meant to be greater than any other angel in existence, and when he murdered God, he became so.

But in doing so, the angels fell. Heaven disappeared, and with Heaven and God gone, the angels had nowhere to exist. They had no one to care for them, to love them, and so they fell through the clouds and to earth. It was terrifying for them, and they fell so fast that everything was a blur. Most of the angels had barely any control of their wings, couldn’t open them, and so when they hit the earth, they died. Mangled bodies and twisted wings seemed to sprout from the blood-stained earth beneath them. But the angels that were able to open their wings kept to the skies for as long as they could before they grew tired - which was something foreign to them. The angels became hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and so they took shelter on the ground and in caves, wherever it seemed safe, and mourned the loss of their fallen brothers and sisters.

Dean’s mother used to tell him this story as she would tuck him at night, and as a child, he believed her. After all, it was a story passed on through generations of Winchesters and Campbells alike, but as he grew older, wiser, the story began to seem exactly what it was:  _a story_.

He’s never been a religious man, so he has no reason to believe to in God and Heaven, and angels. The angels are only feral creatures that hunt during the night and take to the skies during the day, and they kill men when they get the chance. They can’t really be celestial beings from Heaven that once served God. It was just a name given to them because they resemble, well, actual angels; they have the bodies of humans, but from their backs sprout large wings, ranging in color from angel to angel.

Well, that’s what Dean’s heard, because he’s never actually seen an angel for himself, and he‘s never really planned to. The angels live in the mountains and forests, far away from human civilization, though recently, he’s heard from a family down the street about a large shadow circling around their neighborhood at night. It has to be a rumor though, because the last time he heard something like that, the  _thing_  that was flying around houses at night turned out to be an owl. He should know; he was there to witness it being shot.

The body fell fast, and it hit the ground with a loud thud, right into his backyard. Blood immediately pooled around the body, soaking into the earth beneath it as its wings - broken - twitched involuntarily every few seconds. It was painful to watch, something so beautiful and majestic  plummeting to the earth, wings flapping and stretching, trying to catch the wind, trying to fly, but dying in the end. Dean imagined that must have been what had happened to the angels that had fallen and had died once they hit the earth. The grief he felt could not have compared to what the brothers and the sisters of the fallen angels could have felt though, because he knows the grief of a lost one.

He buried the owl behind the shed in his backyard, and never listened to the rumors of his neighbors again.

\---

It’s the middle of Summer in Lawrence, Kansas, the cool air of the summer breeze is warm against Dean’s skin, and the beer in his hand is sweating, the water seeping through the spaces between his fingers and dripping onto his shirt and jeans as he lifts the bottle to his lips. Sitting on his porch is not something that he chooses to do during the day, since it is during the middle of July, and summers in Kansas are  _hot_. He presses his toes against the wood of the porch, the fabric of his sock just barely snagging a small splinter of wood as he pulls it away to let the porch swing move forward.

He stays like that for hours, the small cooler in front of the swing slowly depreciating of beer as the time passes, and he lifts his hand to wave at someone as they pass by on the street. They don’t wave back though, ignoring Dean as they carry on down the street. Dean grunts and pulls the beer bottle to his lips, finishing it off in two swallows and pushing the empty bottle back into the cooler. Another hour passes and the beer’s gone, but he continues to swing as he watches the sky, watches the stars fill the sky.

A star shoots across the sky, but he misses it.

\---

_The skies aren't as bright as they used to be, for the angels used to be the stars, and when the angels fell, the stars did as well._

It’s from a book, a book about angels by a man named Chuck Shurely, that Dean once picked up from the library many years ago. He read the whole thing in one night, read about how the angels must have lived in Heaven, read about the languages that they spoke, and how they used to shine so brightly that no human would have ever been able to see their true form. He read about how they used to be the stars, how angels and stars were connected, and how if an angel fell, a star fell right along with it; when an angel died, a star died.

The book currently resides on Dean’s coffee table, having never returned it to the library, even after the large fee that began to build up after years of still keeping it. Eventually the library got tired of sending him notices about his overdue book, and just left it alone, decided that maybe  _hey, if the man wants the book, let him keep it_ ; the librarian had told him that even though it was an old book, it was never a big seller, because people didn’t care about angels like some other people did. People didn’t want to read the book and become sympathetic toward the creatures that they hunted, because there were people in the world who would much rather kill a beautiful creature and mount it on their wall than admire it from afar.

Though no one that’s ever gotten close enough to angel to admire it, actually admire it.

In the book it states that angels are celestial beings, infinite in age, and more powerful than any other creature on the face of the earth. Their wingspans range in size, the youngest angels have the smallest, the oldest having the largest, and the much more powerful angels - the archangels - have multiple sets of wings. Angels, when they find a suitable mate, mate for life, yet they do not procreate, because angels are created, not born.

Dean could recite these facts from memory if he had to, and he has on multiple occasions. Usually it’s when angels are brought up in discussions at work, or with someone that he’s run into in the neighborhood, though by now he’s recited lines from the book so many times that everyone he works with probably knows as much about angels as he does. As a child, he never thought that angels would become such an important aspect in his life because he went from knowing nothing about them, sitting in the living room of his old house with his little brother Sam, staring at the large pair of wings mounted on the wall, to _this_.

To knowing almost everything about angels, to caring about them even though he’s never even  _seen_  one, but, y’know, everyone has to see an angel at least _once_  in their lifetime.

He’s heard stories from people around the city, talking about that angel they bagged last weekend with their boys, how the wingspan was at least as twenty feet in length, and how they had shot and killed it, got the wings mounted, and how the wings now reside in their office upstairs. Or how someone had seen an angel on a hike through the mountains, how it seemed to almost glow in the night, how its large, gray wings spanned out behind its back, and how frightened it looked when it noticed that it was being watched by a human before taking off into the sky with a heavy down stroke of its wings.

Having rarely ventured out of the city and into the mountains or forests, Dean’s never had the chance to see an angel, and he’s never even dreamed of ever being able to see one. It’s a kinda a once-in-a-lifetime sort of deal, for the most part, and because Dean’s more of a recluse than anything, his life is going to pass by before he gets that one chance.

He’s a mechanic, not a hunter or a sort of thrill-seeker on the lookout for angels. He has a job to maintain, a life to live, and even though seeing an angel is definite near the top of his to-do list, he knows it just isn’t going to happen. There’s not enough time in the day to go out searching for an angel to just ogle at; he’s more of the  _read-about-them-and-admire-them-from-afar_ type of guy other than the _read-about-them-and-then-search-for-them-and-live-your-dream_  type of guy.

Though, circumstances do tend to change, and it’s not always the humans seeking out the angels.

\---

It’s been raining for the past three days, nonstop. Dean’s barely managed to make it out of the house to collect his mail without being soaked to the bone, and it’s surprising that the mailman even delivers in this sort of weather. It’s almost not worth the bother; practically everything that’s shoved into his mailbox is junk mail and bills. He pulls a chair back from the kitchen table and flops into it, his clothes making a wet squelch as he does so, and he grimaces slightly, shrugging out of his shirt and letting it drop onto the floor in a wet heap.

He picks the mail up off of the table, flipping through it, mumbling to himself as he passes over each envelope -  _junk, junk, junk, bill_  - until he has them separated into two neat stacks. The name on the last one catches his eye though, and he sets it down on the table apart from the stacks of junk and bills. The sender is someone who Dean expected never to hear from again, and he laughs to himself, thinking that maybe it would have been a hell of a lot easier to pick up the phone than to send a letter. It would have been a lot easier to have a ten-minute discussion over the phone than wait a week to receive that letter.

But that’s just how his brother’s always been.

Dean doesn't read the letter though, he leaves it sitting on the kitchen table with the rest of his mail as he pushes away from the table and retrieves a beer from the fridge, making his way into the living room. The rain's still beating down on the roof and outside his window the sky's gotten darker. A flash of lightning streaks across the sky. Dean almost starts when a clash of thunder follows suit, and he twists the cap off of the beer and takes a long swig before setting it on the coffee table.

He's about to sit on his couch and turn the television on when he hears a loud crash outside, something that definitely isn't thunder unless thunder decided to makes its presence known right in his own backyard. But the storm's right above his house, and maybe it really was thunder. Then there's another loud crash, sounding much closer to his house, and _okay, that's it_. Dean makes his way through the living and back into the kitchen, pushing open the back door without even thinking what exactly could be outside.

Maybe it's a raccoon trying to find shelter from the rain, or maybe it's a drunk who just happened to stumble into his backyard in the middle of one of the worst storms he's ever seen in his life. It could be anything, and he doesn't even think about _what_ it could be. Instead, he's more worried about it making too much noise, because all he wants to do is relax, watch some television, and enjoy a beer before opening that letter from his brother, his brother who actually did something with his life. Who went to Stanford to become a layer, leaving Dean behind in Lawrence to take over their father's business.

He closes the door behind, and there's another crash, a thump, and something that sounds unmistakably like the sound of flesh tearing. Dean cringes as he pushes his way outside, shivering slightly as the rain hits his skin, and he realizes that he hadn't even bothered putting a shirt on to investigate the strange noise from his backyard. Because this was _his_ house, and _his_ yard, and whatever was outside causing such a ruckus was going to have to deal with an angry, shirtless Dean Winchester.

There's another thump and the sound of something hitting metal, like the roof of his shed. He turns and glares through the dark and rain, and there, by his shed, is the outline of a man. Dean takes a small step forward, and the man slumps forward in the mud, hands reaching out, looking for something to grasp, something to steady himself, but ends up pushing his hands into the mud when he can't find anything. And then Dean sees it, a faint glow seeming to radiate from the skin of the man, and he gasps softly, taking another step forward.

A soft, ragged, moan comes from the man as Dean steps forward again, stopping abruptly when the man's head snaps up, fixing him with the bluest eyes that Dean has ever seen. They glow, actually glow, and Dean has half a mind to turn tail and run back into the house, because people's eyes _don't glow_ , but something keeps him on the spot, makes him _not_ want to run back into the house and call the police because there's some strange, glowing man in his backyard.

Something hits the ground beside the man, something large and loud, and Dean can hear the faint sound of something snapping as the man groans and digs his fingers into the mud. There's a scraping against the roof of his shed and Dean's eyes snap to it, but it's so dark and he can't see anything, not even when there's another thud against the ground. And then there's another flash of lightning, and Dean's knees go weak at the sight before him; the large, feathery appendages draping over the sides of the man.

And it's not a coincidence that he hadn't seen them before, because they're as black as the night, and they blend in perfectly. The wings - fuck, _wings_ \- twitch just barely before raising slightly, and the man's eyes dart away from Dean before he squeezes them shut, a deep breath stuttering out of his lungs as the wings fall against his sides and back onto the ground. Then the man collapses onto the ground, wings spread out at his sides.

Dean stands there in the rain, his mind going a million miles per hour as he tries to comprehend that there's a man with large, black wings in his yard - an _angel_ , the creatures that he knows so much about, yet he's never seen, is right here in his backyard, right in front of him. His breath catches when he finally realizes what's happening, and without thinking he closes the space between him and the angel, kneeling down in front of it. There's plenty of stories circulating about how angels are fierce creatures and kill without a second thought, but this one's unconscious, and maybe -hopefully - it won't be waking up any time soon.

The wings twitch involuntarily as Dean just kneels there, staring and wondering how in the hell an angel came to be in his back yard during one of the worst storms he's ever seen, especially an angel in this condition. He tentatively reaches a hand out, fingers ghosting over the skin of the angel's cheek, smoothing across a large bruise, and even in this lighting the rest of the angel's body looks no better. He has to get it out of the rain and somewhere dry, somewhere safe. Dean throws a look to the shed that the angel had apparently crash landed into, and decides that that will do.

He stands and places his hands on his hips, staring down at the angel whose face is nearly plastered directly into a puddle of mud because, really, he has no idea how he's going to heft this creature into his shed. Its body seems pretty small, thin, but its wings - they're _massive_. And if the thing wakes up while Dean's hauling it into the safety of his shed, he's sure that a hit to the head with one of those black appendages will most definitely kill him. But, then again, what are the chances of having another angel falling into his backyard? He can't just leave out here in the rain.

"What the hell am I getting myself into?" Dean sighs before moving to the angel's side and bending at the knees to grab one of its arms to throw it over his shoulder, but then he freezes, his free hand awkwardly fumbling around, trying to find a place to hold onto that isn't feathers. His hand slides across the angel's bare back, brushing against feathers and down as he wraps his arm around the angel's waist and attempts to haul him onto his feet. Surprisingly, the guy's a hell of a lot lighter than he imagined he would be.

_Angels are incredibly light; the bones in their wings hollow, much like a bird's, to give them the ability to fly without much effort._

The wings on the angel's back twitch again, and then, slowly, the one closest to Dean moves, the top of it draping over Dean's shoulders. Dean's breath catches in his throat, and he stops halfway in lifting the angel off of the ground, reveling in the light weight of the wing against his shoulders, the way the soft down of the feathers brush against the back of his neck. And he thinks to himself that this is what people are missing in their lives, this is what they're taking away from the world. How could anyone in their right mind kill a beautiful creature like this?

Dean manages to heft the angel into the shed, only stumbling over his own feet a couple of times, and he slowly, carefully, lowers the angel onto the floor. The wings immediately slump onto the ground at the angel's sides, and it makes a soft snuffling noise as Dean pushes against its chest lightly, propping it against the wall. Maybe it'll wake up and have no recollection of what had just happened, maybe it'll think that Dean is the enemy and will try to kill him; either way, Dean doesn't want to be here when it wakes up. He stands up straight and gives one last look at the angel, large, black wings draped at its sides, pale skin seeming to glow in the dark, before turning away and walking out of the shed, closing the door behind him.

And locking it, for good measure.

He returns the house even more drenched than before, covered in mud, and not surprisingly, blood as well. The trip through the house is a little more difficult than he would like; stumbling over his own feet, shoulder dragging along the wall as he makes his way into the living room. It's shock, it has to be. Shock over finding an almost dead angel in his backyard. The couch is a welcoming comfort as he lays down on it, wet jeans and all, and he falls asleep in a matter of seconds with the image of glowing, blue eyes seared into his brain.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is awoken by a loud crash along with the sound of glass breaking, and he's off of the couch before his mind even has time to react. His body moves, stumbling forward until his shins hit the edge of the coffee table, and he curses under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair. He quickly notices he's shirtless and still in jeans and he thinks to himself, _why the hell did I sleep in my jeans?_ Because surely there has to be a reason. The night's events are a little bit fuzzy and all he remembers is going through his mail and the onslaught of rain.

He has no recollection of what had really happened.

There's another loud crash and Dean grimaces as he goes upstairs to get changed, pulling on a flannel and a clean pair of jeans before returning downstairs. Last night he had heard the same kind noises, loud crashes, but it sounds a little bit fainter this time - still loud but not _as_ loud as before. He desperately picks at his brain as he heads out of the back door through the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly went on last night. Maybe he had trapped an opossum, or a raccoon, and had decided to keep it residing in his shed until morning when he could decide on something to do with it, he thinks. Or maybe it's something completely different.

He sloshes through the mud barefoot, groaning as the cold mass squishes between his toes, cursing himself for not even thinking about putting his shoes on; the lock on the shed is easy enough to unlock, but what he sees when he opens the door is not at all what he'd figured he was going to find.

What he wasn't expecting was to find a naked man pressed against the corner in the shed.

The man moves as Dean takes a step forward, a soft sound, almost something like a moan coming from the corner, and the floor doesn't feel at all like it usually does. He doesn't feel the rough grit of earth beneath his feet, or the stabbing blades of grass, instead it feels soft and cool. Something shifts in the dark and the feeling is gone from beneath Dean's foot, replaced by the grit of dirt. Dean takes another step forward, slowly reaching his hand to the overhanging light and grasping the string, giving it a pull; the light clicks on and Dean gasps loudly as the man huddles as close as he can into the corner, instantly shrouded by wings.

It only takes a couple of seconds for Dean to realize that he had been standing on feathers instead of dirt. He grimaces slightly, taking a step toward the angel, whispering sincere apologies under his breath. The angel doesn't move much, though. It only pulls its wings closer around itself, shielding him from Dean's view; Dean thinks that he must be trying to protect himself, protect his vulnerable underside with his wings from anything that may be trying to hurt it, though that's the last thing that Dean wants to do - to hurt it.

Dean takes another step forward, stopping briefly when there's a crunch beneath his feet, and he looks down, noticing the broken glass. The window beside him is shattered, and there's shards scattered across the ground, and Dean guesses that's what must have woken him up. The angel breaking the window with his wings. He hesitantly reaches his hand out, much closer to the angel than he'd been a few moments ago, and takes another careful step forward.

"Hey," he whispers, hand still outstretched until he's only a foot away from the angel, hand gently running over the down of feathers, and the wing moves beneath his hand, a small shift, before it's thrown outward, hitting Dean directly in the stomach and sending him flying across the small shed, slamming him into the far wall.

He hits it hard, hitting the ground even harder, and he curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle. "Son of a bitch," he coughs, pulling his legs up as he glances over at the angel, whose wings are wrapped around itself again. The only thing visible are its feet just barely sticking out from beneath the long primary feathers.

He doesn't blame the angel, though, because it was only trying to defend itself, but Dean wants to get close to it, to talk to it, and see what the extent of the damage that's been done to it is. Because, from last night, the angel looked pretty banged up. The wings move slightly and the angel makes a soft noise as Dean pushes himself up off of the ground, still holding an arm around his middle and wincing, knowing that he's going to be sore for a few days.

The wings wrapped around the angel don't look how Dean had always imagined an angel's wings would look. They're black, making the angel look like a massive crow or raven pressed against the corner of his shed, it's missing feathers, some fractured, sticking out from the rest. In a word, the wings are messy, or _broken_.

Dean presses his back against the wall, attempting to steady himself because, shit, it was quickly starting to dawn on him that he was hurting like hell. He takes a step forward, hissing at the pain, but still manages to make his way back toward the angel, reaching his free hand out again.

"I'm not gonna hurt you.. I'm not the bad guy," he whispers, hand just barely hovering over the angel's wing again. The wing moves, and Dean jerks back, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through his side, but continues to hold his ground as the angel pulls his wing back just a bit, revealing the electric blue eyes that Dean had seen last night, the eyes that he had dreamt about. They're wide, wary, like the eyes of a frightened animal that had been backed into a corner, which is exactly what's going on right now.

But the angel had decided to back itself into a corner and Dean can't really blame it for that.

The angel reveals more of itself as if it had understood Dean when he had that he wasn't the bad guy and that his intentions weren't to hurt it, but when more its face is revealed, Dean can _really_ see the extent of the damage. Bruises spattered along the angel's face and neck and there was dried blood caked onto its skin, mixed along with mud from being out in the rain last night. Dean gasps softly and the angel's hands reach out from behind its wings, long, almost spidery fingers, wrapping around the feathers and pulling the wings around it, and Dean guesses that the damage to the wings goes deeper than he can see.

"Please," the angel's fingers slide along its feathers when Dean speaks, and he can still see the angel's eyes looking at him from the small space between the feathers, watching him, judging his movement as he takes another small step forward.

"Please let me help you."

And then there's a whisper and Dean freezes, dropping his hands to his sides. He takes a step back when there's another whisper. Maybe his mind's playing a trick on him, or maybe it's the way the wind's blowing through the broken window, or maybe the angel is actually _speaking_ to him. He had read that angel's don't speak the English language, yet they understand most of it, just not all of it; instead, they speak a language called Enochian, a language that Dean has only read about but never heard. He doesn't even know what the language looks like when written.

But the words the angel speaks are soft, comforting, and it sends a warm feeling throughout Dean's entire being; it makes him feel safe, and he takes another step toward the angel, arm stretched out in front of him again. The angel continues speaking, voice just as soft, and Dean takes steps again, and this continues on until Dean's directly in front of the angel with his hand upon one of its wings. They twitch, but Dean doesn't jerk back again because he _knows_ that the angel isn't going to hurt him this time, because it knows that Dean is here to help.

The angel feels like a livewire and Dean can feel what almost feels like small jolts of electricity coursing from the wing through his hand and to the rest of his body. It doesn't hurt him, though. It's actually quite the opposite; it sends a reassuring feeling throughout him and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is what the angel is feeling at the moment. That maybe the angel can somehow transfer its own emotions and feelings into anything that it touches.

None of that was ever mentioned in the book.

\---

The two of them, Dean and the angel, stay like that for several minutes - Dean's hand on the angel's wing, and the angel, unmoving. Neither make a sound or even try to speak, and Dean thinks, in a way, that it's actually kind of beautiful. The injured angel, holed up in the shed of a human, the interaction, the unspoken connection that Dean thinks the two of them have made. It almost sounds like something out of a story book and Dean's mediocre life is definitely not anything like that.

He works five days a week, eight hours a day; he comes and cracks open a beer, sits on his couch, and watches whatever he can find on the television. He goes grocery shopping at least twice a week, sometimes three, and he hardly makes time for his friends - what friends he has. He doesn't spend a lot of time outside of his house, except to work, and he's completely okay with that. He's also lost touch with the only part of his family he has left, and he's okay with that as well.

He's just your average guy who, well, doesn't have a social life, but it's a choice, and he's pretty damn content with the choice that he's made. But it's not every day that an angel just happens to show up in the backyard of an average man, and it's not every day that an average man can get _this_ close to an actual angel without being killed. Sure, he's going to be sore for probably the entirety of next week, but at least he's not dead and at least the angel hasn't tried to kill him yet.

He keeps his hand on the angel's wing for a few more seconds before pulling back and the wings slump just slightly, almost as if its relaxed, which is definitely saying something because just minutes prior the angel was thrusting them out to throw Dean across the small space of the shed. But now the angel seems more calm and its wings slowly, slowly, begin to sink down until they're almost flat on the ground, and Dean realizes that the angel is moving its wings without making any sort of noise or uncomfortable shifting, because, yeah, they're pretty banged up, and it's a little strange that it doesn't even seem to be effecting the angel.

Maybe they just have a really high tolerance to pain, or maybe they didn't feel pain at all, which definitely wasn't mentioned in the book either.

But, either way, some of the feathers are twisted, and Dean can only guess that it's painful for the angel. Some of them are visibly torn and one of the wings just doesn't seem as straight as the other. It's almost as if it had been snapped in half at one point and the bone healed wrong, looking a little bit out of whack, almost twisted in a way, and, yeah, that _has_ to be pretty damn painful, even if the angel isn't showing any sort kind of reaction. The wings twitch and pull across the ground, pulling toward the angels flanks and up to rest against its legs where they're pulled against its chest, and in that small amount of movement, Dean sees it - a small flicker of _something_ in the angel's eyes.

Pain. The angel is definitely in pain.

Dean kneels in front of the angel, the its wings pull closer to its body, the boldness it felt earlier obviously gone, resorting back to its skittish and almost feral ways. But Dean stills presses forward, a hand outstretched, moving closer and closer to the angel until his hand, his fingers, just barely graze across the skin of one of its arms. The angel jerks back, back hitting the wall behind it as its wings shove forward, gently pushing at Dean, and then furling around itself in a sort of shield, almost mirroring how it was when Dean first entered the small shed.

"Hey - uh - angel," Dean smiles to himself, feeling almost stupid for trying to speak to the angel again when it won't even be able to communicate with him, but it's worth a try. The angel's eyes dart from the ground to Dean's eyes, locking onto them, and immediately Dean feels cold, feels a chill run down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the angel's eyes seem brighter, almost like they're glowing, even in the line of sunlight pouring through the broken window.

And then the angel's looking away and the cold that had just bored right down into Dean's very being is gone and he feels, well, normal again. Warm, even, in the cool climate of the shed. _What the fuck had just happened?_ It was almost as if the angel was looking _into_ Dean, into the depth of him, into his soul, which, of course, wouldn't seem out of the ordinary for angels. But, fuck, it was one of the weirdest sensations Dean had ever experienced.

Dean scoots back from the angel, averting his eyes and looking down to the ground, lest the angel lock eyes with him once more and make him feel _that_ again.

"Need to get you inside, get you cleaned up," he glances up from the ground at the angel and the angel's eyes aren't on him, instead they're on the window, on what's outside the window. The sky's clear and the sun's out and shining, no evidence of the worst storm that Dean's ever encountered in his life. The angel makes a small noise, something almost like a hum, as its eyes dart across the small frame of the window, and when Dean turns to look out the window himself, he catches sight of a small flashes of black and brown; small birds flying back and forth across the window. It must be the family of sparrows that decided to make their home in the tree in his backyard.

The sun breaks through a cloud and it pulls Dean from his train of thought while also nearly blinding him, and he turns his attention back to the angel, to the large, raven colored wings pulled around its body.

He has an angel in his shed - _an angel_ \- and he lives in a neighborhood mostly full of people who are supportive of hunting them, and it's morning, the sun's out, and there's bound to be people outside in their yards. Maybe attempting to drag the angel out of the shed during the day where it can stick out like a sore thumb isn't such a great idea after all. He doesn't want it at risk anymore, doesn't want it hurt anymore, and he definitely doesn't want it killed. He wants to help it, to nurse it, get it to where it'll be able to fly again and maybe return back to its family.

He has to do at least one good deed before he kicks the bucket, right?

The angel still isn't looking at him, but he stands and tentatively reaches out again before thinking better of it and withdrawing his hand. By now he's learned that the angel is a sort of unpredictable creature and that it apparently has some sort of strange power, so maybe touching it when it's not even expecting it isn't the best idea right now.

"Well, I'll be back later, when it's dark, and then we can worry about getting you cleaned up."

The angel still doesn't turn his attention to him, it just continues to look out of the window at the sky, at the birds, and Dean's heart feels as though it clenches in his chest. The angel has to miss its home and its family, and Dean is all too familiar with that feeling.

He leaves the shed and locks the door behind him, moving through the mud that's now already beginning to dry, and into his house. Later, he'll have to figure out how to get the angel out of the shed and into his house, which he guesses is going to be much more than a tiny ordeal, seeing as how the angel doesn't seem too interested in listening to him at all, not that it can even understand every word that he's saying.

\---

Dean doesn't know how he makes it throughout the whole day without going crazy but he somehow manages, even with the angel, its wings, and its eyes constantly on his mind. There seems to be no way of pushing the creature from his thoughts and even when he closes his eyes for a nap around one in the afternoon, it's there, its eyes, boring down into him. He wakes up in a cold sweat, goosebumps covering almost every square inch of his body, and then he decides that he needs a drink.

Watching television and having a few beers only manages to keep him entertained for a few hours, and after becoming bored of that he decides to pick the book - _A Study of Angels_ by Chuck Shurley - off of the coffee table and sprawls across the couch, crossing his ankles as he opens it. Maybe there's something in here about the angel's weird powers - or whatever the hell had happened back in the shed - that he had skipped over the first few hundred times that he had read this. But after reading the book over once, and flipping through the pages several times afterward, he comes across nothing and he thinks to himself that the book must be incomplete. Because if it were actually a study of angels, then it would have more than all of the basics, stuff that he had picked up just from seeing the angel for the first and second time.

Maybe the author, this Chuck guy, had never really gotten enough contact with an angel, hadn't really talked to one or actually gotten close enough to touch one. Sure, he seems to know most of the history of angels but, really, there's not much to angel physiology and psyche in the book. He can't exactly blame the guy, though, what with all the stories about angels turning on humans - innocent humans on a walk through the mountains, or hiking, or doing whatever - and killing them, tearing them to shreds, leaving their bodies broken and torn for someone else to discover later on.

Angels aren't the things that people used to think that they were, guardians, things to keep you safe; here, now, they're wild creatures, driven by instinct - the instinct to protect themselves and their family from harm - and they're not afraid to kill anything that they think might harm them, or anything that might get in their way. Practically, they're wild animals, more scared of humans than humans are of them, even though they're definitely stronger than any human in the world.

But humans have weapons, guns, and can kill an angel with one bullet. And angels have nothing to defend themselves with.

Dean sits up and sets the book back onto the coffee table before pushing himself up and off of the couch, moving around the room to collect the empty bottles of beer that he had left behind while watching television, trying to think of something else to entertain himself with. They clink noisily in the trash bin when he drops them in, and he glances at the clock on the wall above it. Half past six, and it's still bright as hell outside.

He strays to the back door and cracks it open, poking his head out of the opening and staring at the shed straight ahead, placed along the fence of his backyard. Through the broken window he can see that it's dark in the shed, and maybe the angel had turned the light off, or maybe the bulb had burned out, or maybe the angel had gone and broken that too. Dean shakes his head before stepping back into the kitchen and closing the door.

"Worrying too damn much about that.." he pauses, the word _angel_ falling dead on his lips as his hand moves to the lock of the back door, fingers closing around the deadbolt and turning it, the lock clicking into place. He doesn't even know why he can't - _won't_ \- speak the word and it's a little unnerving. He shivers, crossing his arms across his chest as he pads soundlessly back into the living and sits down on the couch.

Maybe it's because he's finally seen an angel in person, a creature so much more powerful than him, that makes the word die off before it's even spoken, or maybe it's the fact that he's had all of these different expectations of what they creatures would look like. Whatever it is, he just can't seem to speak the word for the time being, but after thinking on it too much for just several minutes, he lets it slide. This isn't something to dwell on, especially when he has a much more important task at hand. A task that needs to be taken care of soon, seeing as how the sun is just now starting to creep down the horizon, dragging a blanket of night along with it as it shifts along to the other side of the world, greeting people who are just starting their days.

With the sun slowly making its way below the horizon, Dean gets up and off of the couch and goes upstairs, stopping at the hallway closet and opening it. He thinks that maybe he can get a large blanket around the angel, hide its wings from prying eyes, and walk it back into his house. Though, of course, it's going to be awkward, seeing as how the angel doesn't have a stitch of clothing on it; not that he expected angels to wear clothing, what with their enormous wings and _just not being human_.

He retrieves a blanket and closes the closet before making his way back downstairs and to the back door, but then he stops, hand hovering in front of the deadbolt lock. Is this something that he can really go through with? What if the angel refuses to move? What if it lashes out at him again and he isn't so lucky this time? What if it tears him to shreds in his shed and just leaves him there? He shoves his hand into the mass of blanket when he notices that it's shaking, gripping the blanket tight and holding it against his body, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. These next few moments could either go horribly wrong, or incredibly right, and there's no other way to find out other than just jumping in and doing it.

\---

The walk between his house and shed is simple once he's over the fear of what might actually happen. He's unlocked the damn back door and after that he's just running on, well, adrenaline, he guesses. It couldn't really be anything else. The fear of what might happen, mixed with the excitement and pure joy of just seeing the angel, talking to it, and trying to coax it out of the shed and into his house. Okay, that sounds a little _off_.

"Fuck it," he laughs to himself as he approaches the door of the shed, hand moving from muscle memory, unlocking the door with ease and pushing it open. There's a soft rustling noise and the sound of scuffling, the angel folding its wings and scooting away from Dean, back into the corner where it feels the most safe.

Dean ventures further into the shed, hand groping around in the air to find the string to the light, and when he finds it he lightly tugs it down, making the light blink on. So apparently the angel had turned it off itself which is, _wow_ , definitely weird. Maybe it's learning from seeing? That's something else for another time though, and Dean bundles the blanket into his arms as he kneels down in front of the angel. It's pressed back into the corner of the shed, wings pulled tight around its body as it peeks out between a few stray feathers, those blue eyes locking onto Dean's.

"Hey," Dean croaks, voice low and almost broken from disuse, and he clears his throat, making a sort of apologetic face at the angel as it flinches away from him and the sudden noise.

"Okay, uh, angel," the words rolls off of his tongue easily enough this time, and Dean makes a face before straightening up and giving the angel his full attention. "I need you to come into the house with me so I can get you all cleaned up, but the only way to do this is if you let me put this blanket over you." He lifts the blanket up slightly, holding it in front of him, and the angel makes a soft noise, pressing itself further into the corner, wings drawing up closer to its body and hiding its face.

Dean curses under his breath, drawing the blanket back down and toward his body, looking down at the ground and rolling ideas around his head. He knows that the angel doesn't completely understand him, so how in the hell is he supposed to make the angel understand that being out here in dangerous, and it's much more safer in the house? The angel definitely doesn't trust him, firstly, because he's human, and, secondly, because he's pretty sure that this angel was being hunted before it ended up in his backyard, what with all the bruises, scrapes, and broken feathers (and maybe even bones).

Even though the angel's frightened, he still needs to get the point across that he's not actually here to harm it, but instead to help it. He presses closer to the it, within arm's reach, and holds the blanket out to the angel, hoping that maybe it'll investigate it, or do whatever angels do to figure out if something's good or bad. He stays like that for several minutes, arm outstretched toward the angel, and just when he's about to drop his arm, already exhausted from  the effort of holding it up, the angel's hand breeches through the mass of black feathers and reaches out toward the blanket.

Its fingers smooth across the surface over Dean's hand, pinching and prodding at the fabric before it grabs it full in its hand and yanks it toward its body. Luckily Dean's grip on it is loose and he isn't tugged toward the angel, but he lets the angel take the blanket to investigate it further.

Dean watches as the wings pull away from the angel's body, revealing more of itself to Dean without even realizing it, or without even caring, as it pulls the blanket against its body, fingers sliding over the fabric before it buries its face into it, making soft humming noises as it investigates. The sight alone is something to behold, a creature so powerful completely enthralled by something so simple as a blanket, and Dean can't help but laugh. The angel freezes, head jerking up as it slides the blanket off of itself and stares at Dean, and almost as if it's realized how exposed it is, it draws its wings back against its body, shielding itself from Dean's view as it continues to make small noises, and Dean guesses that it's still rubbing its face against the blanket.

The two stay like that for several minutes, Dean knelt in front of the angel as it continues to rub down - or whatever the hell it's doing - the blanket behind its wings, but then the wings pull apart, and the angels arm is pushed through the feathers toward Dean, blanket in hand. For a moment Dean just stares at it, not even really sure what to do, before his brain kicks into gear and he slowly brings his hand up, fingers closing around the blanket and pulling it toward his body. The angel moves forward, closer to Dean, and kneels in front of him, wings still half wrapped around its body as it pushes its arm closer toward Dean, part of the blanket still in its hand.

"What do you want me do?" Dean looks between the blanket and the angel, and the angel pushes the blanket closer toward Dean, almost as if it's trying to tell him something, trying to get him to do something. But the angel doesn't make any sort of noise, and the two can't even communicate with each other, so, really, what the hell? The angel makes a noise in the back of its throat, what almost sounds like an annoyed grunt, before shoving the blanket in Dean's face with more force than necessary, and knocking Dean back onto his ass with an _umph_. Dean pulls the blanket away from his face and manages to swat the angel's hand away, but when he looks at the angel, its head is tilted to the side, almost as if waiting for Dean to do _something_.

Hesitantly, he rubs the blanket against his face and the angel moves closer to him, blue eyes wide and eyebrows raised, watching him carefully. The angel moves its wings slightly, pushing them forward and closer to Dean, the feathers brushing against his bare arms as he pulls the blanket the blanket away from his face and reaches toward the angel with it; the angel snatches it from him quickly and drapes it over its head, making all sorts of soft, cooing noises, and Dean can't help but laugh again. In a way, this creature in front of him is a bit like a child, an animalistic child, but still almost the same, and it's a little comforting that it's less like a wild creature than he had imagined it to be.

But, of course, this is a creature that has not dealt with humanity most of its life and it's probably going to find much joy from investigating simple objects such as the blanket, and in turn some things are going to frighten it, and almost - _almost_ \- Dean regrets wanting to take this creature into his house. Because what's a scared angel going to do? Throw its wings out and break everything in sight, probably.

Dean sighs softly and reaches out with one of his hands, trailing his fingers over the feathers of one of the angel's wings, the one that had looked much worse the night before but now looks almost as good as new. Of course angels have to have some sort of super healing power or something. His fingers close around one of the feathers, sliding down it and tugging softly, and then the angel freezes, body and wings tensing as it draws the blanket from off of its head and fixes Dean with a stare so strong that he can feel it down to his bones. He shivers and withdraws his hand, muttering a quiet, " _I'm sorry_ ," under his breath, and then the angel turns its attention back to the blanket as if the whole feather-tugging never happened.

Thank God, or whoever, for dropping an angel with the attention span of a kitten straight into his backyard.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes Dean longer than he thought it would to get the blanket away from the angel, and it takes even longer to drape it over to hide its wings. He manages to do it, surprisingly, without having the angel throw him against the wall again or receiving any other bodily injuries. But the angel isn't too thrilled about the situation, or that's what Dean guesses from the noises it's making. He's come to realize, after being with it for a couple of hours, that it doesn't make a lot of human noises, mostly  humming noises or soft chirping sounds. One humanly thing it _does_ do is sigh.

Which it has been doing ever since Dean got the blanket over it, which was just about five minutes ago.

"Look, if you want to get out of here, I gotta keep this over you. If anyone saw me walking out of here with a man with big, black wings," Dean pauses, sighing softly as he runs a hand over the blanket over the angel's shoulders, "I dunno what would happen."

The angel just fixes him a glare, a look that Dean swears has the force to kill someone because, seriously, this angel has the most piercing blue eyes that he's ever seen and they're more than a little unnerving. They're especially unnerving when they're fixed into a glower aimed straight at you. Dean gives a shrug and the angel turns its attention away from him to the ground, where it slides its finger across the dirt in meaningless patterns; lines and squiggles, things that have no real meanings.

"Alright, let's get you up and into the house," Dean says as he wraps his arm around the angel's shoulders and tries to heft him up, but the angel doesn't move. Its wings move beneath the blanket, and Dean slides his arm down over them to keep the blanket in place so it doesn't slide off, and the angel grunts in irritation, heaving a heavy sigh as it moves beneath Dean's arm to stand, almost toppling Dean over onto the ground. It stands a little awkwardly with its arms hanging at its sides and when it stands up straight the blanket nearly slides off of its back. Luckily Dean's there to grab it before it hits the ground and he keeps an arm around the angel's wings to hold it in place.

It shoots him a look and Dean raises his hand  in surrender, but he still keeps his other arm tucked around the wings.

"Look, dude, I don't trust you just waltz into my house by yourself. And I don't know what you're going to do, so I'm just gonna walk you in. No big deal."

The angel sighs and takes a step forward, Dean right beside it as he pushes the door of the shed open with his foot, and they both walk outside into the night. The wings beneath Dean's arm twitch and the angel huffs, crossing its arms across its chest and pulling them tight against its body. It's such a human gesture that it takes Dean by surprise, and he hadn't realized that it had gotten cold in the passing hours until now. He smiles, though, as they walk toward his house, and when they reach the back door Dean pulls his arm off of the angel and opens the door, pushing it completely open.

Dean slides his arm back around the angel and it clutches at the blanket in front of it, holding the edges to keep it around itself, but it doesn't move when Dean tries to push it into the house. It makes a small noise, a soft whine, but it still doesn't move; it just stares into the house, into Dean's kitchen. The floor's clean, the linoleum faintly shining in the light from overhead, and the angel tentatively takes a step forward, pushing one foot through the doorway and touching down with just a toe onto the floor. It squeaks - yeah, it _squeaks_ \- and pulls its foot back toward itself, leaning forward just slightly in the doorframe to inspect the floor. Dean knows that it's never been inside of a house before, so of course it's not going to know what anything is, but he just really wants to get it cleaned up because he is not keeping an angel in his shed, and he does not want a dirty angel roaming around his house and making the place a mess.

So, Dean gently shoves the angel in the kitchen, and its wings flare up and out, the edges hitting the outer walls and the counters as it tries to regain its balance and not land face first onto the floor, and the blanket falls to the ground. Dean can't help the flush that creeps into his cheeks, because there's a naked - definitely male - angel standing in his kitchen with its large, black wings taking up the whole space. The angel grunts and retrieves the blanket from the floor, folding its wings against its back as it holds the blanket against its chest. It doesn't move though, and Dean gives it another light shove further into the kitchen, and this time, it walks forward instead of almost toppling over onto the floor.

The angel doesn't look happy though. His feathers are ruffled and sticking out in odd places, and he clutches the blanket to his chest like it's a lifeline; he keeps his eyes on the ground, even when Dean moves to stand in front of him, leaning forward and bending slightly to try and catch his eyes. He leaves the door open for a couple of minutes just in case the angel decides to freak out and flee, but he doesn't and Dean straightens up and moves behind it close the door behind them. The door closes noisily and the angel starts at the sound, taking a small step forward further into the kitchen. Feathers are still sticking out of his wings, and they look much larger than normal, still ruffled, obviously trying to make himself look bigger.

A sort of defense, Dean thinks as he moves back to stand in front of the angel, hand reaching out to grab the blanket and tug. The angel tugs back, but Dean tugs harder and pulls the angel forward and out of the kitchen into the main hallway. They stop there, and Dean's eyes dart between the stairs and the angel. The only bathroom's upstairs - definitely inconvenient - and he's pretty damn sure that they don't have stairs wherever the hell the angel's from. Okay, so maybe it'll take a little bit of coaxing to get the angel upstairs, or maybe he'll just figure it out on his own.

"Okay," Dean tugs at the blanket gently before releasing it, and the angel pulls it tighter around him, stock still in place. Dean moves toward the stairs and motions with his hand for the angel to follow him. The angel doesn't move.

This isn't going to work. He has to remember that this isn't a person, that this is an angel who obviously doesn't know much about humans and human gestures. But, then again, every time a human got close to an angel, or vice versa, one of them usually ended up dead. There's no way for them to learn about each other because humans hunt angels and angel kills humans in defense. It's still surprising that Dean's even still alive, that this angel is even allowing Dean to get close to him and to even touch him and push and pull him around. One wrong move and the angel could easily kill Dean with his bare hands.

"You," Dean points at the angel from the foot of the stairs, and the angel tilts his head to the side, eyes wide. Dean almost laughs. "Upstairs. C'mon." He grabs the front of the blanket again and the angel grunts in dissatisfaction, pulling away from Dean. Dean grumbles and grabs the blanket again, keeping a hold of it and tugging forward; the angel lurches forward toward Dean, just barely catching his footing, and his wings flare out just slightly before he catches his balance. If the angel's this uncoordinated on flat ground, then how in the hell is he going to make it up the stairs?

\------

The two of them make it up the stairs with only a few mishaps. Pictures knocked off the wall and broken, Dean falling on his ass on the stairs - that's definitely going to be sore tomorrow - and the angel falling forward and crashing into Dean, but they make it eventually and Dean pushes the door of the bathroom open. There's two bathrooms in the house, one in the master bedroom and one down the hall, but it would've been best to have one downstairs as well. Whoever built this house wasn't thinking, or something.

The bathroom's small, but not too small; it's big enough to accommodate the wings of the angel, which the angel chirps happily about as he drops the blanket and spreads his wings, though not too far, in the small space. The wings press Dean against the wall, and pushes his hands out to push one of the wings away from his space, sputtering at the feathers and the mixed taste of blood and dirt in his mouth. Oh God, he's definitely going to brush his teeth. Dean gently pushes the angel around until he's seated on the toilet, and he grabs the blanket off of the floor and throws it over the angel, covering him, because seriously, he does not want to have to look at a naked angel for very much longer.

"Don't move," Dean warns before moving to the shower and turning the water on, letting the hot water flow until he adds a little cold water; he isn't sure how the angel will react to the shower, but he definitely doesn't want it to be too hot or too cold, so he lets the water mix and flow until it's warm. The angel remains still on the toilet, his head turning and looking every which way, taking in the walls and colors of the bathroom, until he lands on the mirror. He gasps and his wings fluff up, extending slightly, feathers sticking out. He pushes off of the toilet and moves toward the mirror, fingers curling around the edge of the sink as he moves forward. He hums softly, tilting his head.

Dean closes the shower curtain and moves to the angel's side, pushing past his wing to stand beside him. The angel reaches out with his hand toward the mirror, fingers hovering in front of it, the reflection of his face. The face looking back is dirty, bloody, and the angel pulls back with a grunt, sitting back on the toilet, wrapping his wings around himself. Dean laughs softly and moves to stand in front of him for a second before moving back to the shower.

"Yeah, you look pretty rough, which is why you're going to get cleaned up. And then I need to figure out what to do with you." The last part is a hushed whisper, meant for Dean and not the angel, even though Dean's pretty sure that the angel doesn't know much of what he's saying. He moves back to stand beside the angel, grasping his arm gently but firmly, and hoists the angel onto his feet and tugs him toward the shower. The angel doesn't put up a fight - thankfully - and dean pulls back the shower curtain and tugs the angel toward the tub. The angel stops at the edge of the tub and looks into the shower, at the water spraying from the showerhead, and he pulls his arm away from Dean to push his hand under the spray of water. A smile tugs at his lips and he pushes past Dean, shoving him back with his wings as he makes his way into the shower and under the water.

The angel turns his face up toward the spray, letting the water rush against his face and down his skin; water droplets cascading down his pale neck and chest, and Dean swallows hard before turning to face the other direction, clearing his throat. The angel doesn't move or even make a sound when Dean does so, but after a couple of moments, the angel begins to hum and it sounds like a song; a song that Dean's never heard, of course.

"Okay, well... I'll just leave you alone to get cleaned up and stuff," Dean speaks as he's moving out of the door. He knows that the angel doesn't know what shampoo or soap is, but right now, it's just best that the angel get rinsed off so that he's not covered in blood and dirt, and whatever else kind of grime decided to stick to his skin and feathers. Dean closes the door behind him and walks toward his bedroom, opening a drawer on his dresser and going through it, rummaging around for a pair of pajama pants. He pulls a pair out, and older pair that doesn't fit him as well anymore, and throws it over his shoulder. Even though he's for certain that the angel has never worn a stitch of clothing, that doesn't mean that he can walk around Dean's house naked with everything hanging out. Dean does has a sense dignity, but he's for certain that the angel doesn't even know the meaning of the word.

There's a loud crash, a thud, and another crash, and Dena's bolting from his bedroom and straight to the bathroom down the hall. He tries the door, but it doesn't budge, so he presses into it harder, rushing against it with his shoulder until it budges. There's a clatter from behind the door, a soft whine, and Dean manages to open the door without any more problems. When he opens the door wide, he stops dead in his tracks, taking in the sight of his bathroom. The water's still running in the shower, but the shower curtain is pulled from the rod, and the rod is off of the walls, one end on the floor and the other in the shower. The floor is covered with water and the mirror behind the sink is cracked. Dean gapes, looks around the bathroom for any further damage, and then his eyes land on the heap of angel huddled up in the corner of the bathroom by the toilet; wet wings pulled tight around his body, shaking.

"Hey, hey," Dean whispers soothingly, as he approaches the angel and kneels down on the floor beside him, reaching out a hand to smooth over one of his wet wings. It jerks under his hand but then relaxes, and the angel pulls it away from his face just enough to peer over it at Dean. His eyes are wide, the blue looking, well, more blue than before, but when he sees Dean, his face almost seems to immediately relax. The angel moves and then there's arms being thrown around Dean's neck, a face being pressed into the crook of it, and the angel is almost in his lap before Dean has time to push him off, because he is not going to let a naked man-angel perch in his lap. Dean gently pushes him back from his and the angel looks at him curiously, eyebrows knitting together and he tilts his head to the side, and Dean smiles at him and stands, glad when the angel follows suit.

The angel looks a hell of a lot cleaner than before, his pale skin no longer covered in dried mud and blood, so Dean moves closer to him, crowds in his space and pulls the pajama pants from his shoulder and hands them to the angel. The angel takes them and stares at them before pulling them toward his face, rubbing the soft cotton against his cheek and pressing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The angel makes a small content noise and then continues rubbing them against his cheek. Dean sighs and pulls them away from the angel, and the angel grunts before Dean opens them up and bends down in front of the angel, reaching for his ankle and tugging at it before the angel lifts his foot up, wings stretching out enough at his sides to keep him balanced. Dean fits his foot through the leg of the pants, and then does the same with the opposite legs, pulling the pants up once both feet have made it inside. He keeps his eyes focus on the ground as he hauls the pants up and around the angel's waist, releasing them only for them to fall down slightly, hanging loose on his hips. Dean pulls them up, tugs the strings in the front until they fit snuggly and ties the strings into a bow. Of course the angel wouldn't fit into anything that he owns even if he doesn't fit into them himself anymore; the creature's pretty much a twig. Sure, there defined muscle beneath his skin, but the thing has no mass to him.

The angel wiggles his toes against the linoleum of the floor, and runs the palms of his hands along his thighs, a smile tugging at his lips at the feel of it. Dean notices the movement on the floor, and laughs softly at the sight of the angel wiggling his toes that are just barely poking out from the end of the too long pants he's wearing. Dean looks up at the angel and the angel's eyes looking down at the floor, at his own toes, and he's completely enraptured, not even looking up at Dean when he speaks and tries to get his attention. The angel's wings pull tight against his back and he finally looks up at Dean after he's been trying to get his attention for a few moments. The angel tilts his head and Dean smiles, gently grasping the angel by the arm and leading him out of the bathroom before turning around and heading back in to turn the water off; the bathroom he can take care of later because right now isn't the time for that.

Dean leads the angel to his bedroom and the angel stops in the middle, leaving Dean to drop his arm and to stand in front of him. The angel lets his wings droop, the ends barely touching the ground, but they look heavy with water, and it must be exerting a lot of energy just to be holding them up. The light in the bedroom isn't too bright, but Dean can see the way that the feather have a shine to them under the artificial light, and the way that they almost look blue when they move a certain way. They're beautiful and Dean can't keep his eyes off of them. The angel ruffles his feathers and the movement draws Dean's gaze away from him, snapping him out of his daze, and he moves to face the angel. He smiles softly and the angel tilts his head just barely, his eyes unblinking, just staring at Dean, but then he moves. He turns away from Dean and walks across the room, his footfalls soft on the carpet of the floor, and Dean can't help but notice the way that the angel's feathers stand out against the white of the carpet and white of the walls, contrasting so beautifully. _When did he start thinking of this creature as beautiful?_

The angel runs its fingers along Dean's bed, gripping at the fabric of the comforter, pulling it from the bed and hugging it to his chest. Dean laughs softly as the angel presses it to his face, pulls it over his head, and ends up draping it completely over him with his face just barely sticking out. It's funny, watching this creature that has had no sort of contact with humanity, growing up God knows how, in a house with objects that it's probably never seen before. And Dean watches as the angel walks around his room, the ends of his feathers dragging across the carpet, and Dean can't seem to care about the water dripping onto the floor from them. It will just soak into the carpet and probably ruin the floor beneath it, but that doesn't matter because he has an angel in his bedroom; a creature that is probably thousands of years old, wearing a pair of his old pajamas with a blanket draped over his head. The angel pushes an arm out from beneath the blanket, dragging his fingers along Dean's dresser, touching the knobs on the drawers; he reaches the television and experimentally pushes at the buttons on the front, jerking back with a startled sound when the television turns on. The angel stands stock still, eyes wide, staring at the screen in front of it, but Dean moves to turn it off and the angel grunts, turning his attention to Dean. He tilts his head to the side, blue eyes curious, and strands of wet hair stick to his forehead. Dean crosses his arms across his chest, scuffs his foot on the carpet and averts his eyes.

"I don't know if you - uh - eat or anything. But if you're hungry, I'm sure you'll figure out how to tell me." When Dean looks up, the angel's still staring at him and he hasn't moved. The blanket's still draped over his head and Dean laughs softly. "Hell, I don't even know _what_ you eat." Then angel hums softly and turns away from Dean and moves toward his bed, and he presses a hand onto the mattress when he reaches it. It indents beneath this palm, and he does it a few more times before he crawls onto the bed and sits right in the middle, pulling the blanket tighter around his body and staring at Dean; his wings lay flat on the bed, a light sheen on the feathers from being wet, and Dean approaches the bed. He grabs an end of the blanket and tugs at it, "Nuh uh, no way, man. You are not staying in my bed, especially with your wings all wet and stuff. You're gonna soak the mattress!" The angel growls and tugs the blanket back, pulling Dean with it; an audible gasp is ripped from his lungs, surprised at the strength of the creature but, then again, he knows of the stories of angels being able to rip a human to pieces. He releases the blanket, mumbles a silent apology, and sits on the edge of the bed.

There's no way that he's going to be able to move the angel without getting himself hurt.

\------

The angel roams around the house while Dean makes himself a sandwich for dinner, and by the time he's finished the angel has made his way into the kitchen to stand alongside him at the counter. The angel stares at the sandwich in Dean's hands and Dean holds it up to him, but one sniff and the angel pulls a face and walks briskly out of the kitchen. Apparently he doesn't like smoked ham with lettuce, mayo, and cheese. Dean watches as the angel leaves the kitchen, his wings - now dry - opening slightly and then folding back against his back when he enters the living room on the other side of the doorway; he takes a bite of his sandwich, leans against the counter, and thinks to himself. What would an angel eat? Well, they do live in the wild, so many they eat berries or other things of that sort. Whatever he eats, Dean probably doesn't have, or maybe they just don't eat at all. There's too many things that have not been mentioned in the book on his coffee table.

He doesn't even know if the angel sleeps, so when he's ready to head to bed, he leaves the angel downstairs on the couch. The angel huffs when Dean pushes him onto the couch after he tries to stand, and by the fifth time he doesn't move; he only fixes Dean with a glare and flattens his wings out at his sides, stretching them along the length of the couch. He seems to relax after that, though, and it must be straining having his wings folded against his back all of the time and not being able to open them to their full length. Dean gives him a small smile and then moves to the stairs, glancing back at him to make sure that he hasn't gotten up; he hasn't. The angel's still in the same spot, wings stretched along the couch, staring at the black screen of the television in front of him. The sight's a little pathetic, but Dean heads up the stairs to his bedroom anyway. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it onto the floor when he enters the room, doing the same with his pants along the way to his dresser, and he pulls on a pair of pajama pants; old and worn and a little too big for him. But they're comfortable and he loves them. He crawls onto his bed and the sheets are a little wet, but he ignores it and pulls them over his tired body anyway. The day's been long, but it's been worth it, spending his time with an angel, a creature that he shouldn't even be interacting with; and he falls into sleep sooner than he thought he would. It takes him over easily, and it's the best sleep that he's gotten in a long time.

Sometime during the night he feels a weight on his bed, the scrape of sheets against sheets, and then a heavy warmth over his body. He ignores it to pull the sheets over his face, pressing into the mattress and the pillow, falling back to sleep easily. The bed's warm, warmer than most nights, and Dean revels in it as he sleeps, lets his dreams pull him under and keep him in a comfortable slumber. But in the morning he wakes with a start, a heavy weight falling over his body, and it's almost suffocating. He wrenches the sheets from his face and tries to sit up, but there's a dead weight on him, and when he pushes his hand toward it he's surprised to find that it's feathers; a large mass of feathers. He panics for a moment before he relaxes, remembering the angel that he had let into his house, had left downstairs during the night and, apparently, the angel had made his way up the stairs and had figured out how to use a doorknob. Dean sighs softly and sits up, shoving at the wing until it falls from his shoulders and lays to rest on his waist, the feathers tickling his skin where his shirt has ridden up during the night.

Beside him, the angel makes a soft snuffling noise and buries his face into the mattress, fingers grasping at the sheets as Dean runs a hand down his face, blinking sleepily and trying to process the fact that there's actually an angel in bed with him. The angel's wings shift, and the one on Dean's waist moves up until it's draping over his head, and Dean doesn't even have the energy to push it away, so he leaves it; the angel sighs softly, almost as if he's content, and Dean lays back down onto the bed, letting the wing replace the sheets as he falls into a soft slumber.


End file.
